I normally don't tell people my dreams because apparently it's boring (although personally I find dreams and what they can tell us fascinating!), but since Keats played a role last night I thought I'd risk boring you all with it. So: for some reason in my dream I had a small white dog - he was very young, almost a new-born - whom I named Keats. The dog was lying on my chest, extremely lethargic and near-death because I didn't have any water for it. My grandfather (who is dead) was standing outside a shop with a glass in his hand but it was vodka or something - in any case I couldn't give it to Keats, my dehydrated dog, to keep him alive. Eventually in panic I or someone else got some water from a shop and Keats survived. Later I was swimming under water and the white dog was again lying on my chest somehow. The water moved in waves and I was worried the dog had drowned because we were submerged for so long, but then a wave came and we could gasp for air. I saw that little Keats was alive. I even woke up calling his name!!

"Why should we be owls, when we can be Eagles?" (Keats to Reynolds, 3 February 1818)

Cath, should we all have a go at analysing your dream? (The following is completely off-topic!)My theory about dreams is that they are our bodies' attempts at defragging our biological C-drives (our brains) and we (since we arehumans who attempt to impose order on our often random world) proceed to try to make sense of things. That's not to say we can't gain insight via our dreams. (After all we can gain insight, and bits of wisdom from tea leaves and --for those so inclined -- from goat guts and other things.) My guess would be you were worried about not having enough of something followed by being worried about having too much of the same thing.

Now, someone please tell me about why I keep having a recurring dream about having forgotten my passport when trying to cross the US/Canadian border. (I cross the border fairly frequently and have never even come close to forgetting my passport. I've never even had any trouble at the border. Go figure!)

Somewhat less facetiously, I'd say your having a sweet little puppy named Keats might be a variation on women wanting to "mother" the poet. I'm thinking of Mrs. Reynolds, Maria Dilke and Mrs. Bently (sp?) John & Tom's landlady before Tom's death. All of these women seemed to care about the young John Keats in a maternal sort of way.

"The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence."Wallace Stevens

Art gallery owner to artist: "Throw out your mean words, Mr. Fremantle. Art should be a place of hope, not doubt. And your doubt rises from inexperience, which is not a dishonourable thing. Listen to me. Will you listen?"

Artist to gallery owner: "Sure, that's why I came."

Gallery owner: "When I say truth, I mean beauty."

Gallery owner's assistant: "John Keats. Ode On a Grecian Urn. 'All we know, all we need to know.' And oldie but still a goodie." (my underscore and bold type.) And to think, this is out of Stephen King, of all the authors out there . . . .

"But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, 'twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures." JK to FB 08.07.1819

So I and my wife were attending the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra to hear some Mahler's Adagio from Symphony #10 and Mozart's Requiem. As I looked through the Program, I noticed a short article explaining something about Mahler's work and Mozart's piece. As I read the article on Mozart I learned that he actually died writing his Requiem. At the very end of the article, the writer closed the somber piece with "Darkling, I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme...Now more than ever seems it rich to die."

Of course, I was surprised. Made my night to see our friend in print at such a venue.

"Come... dry your eyes, for you are life, rarer than a quark and unpredictable beyond the dreams of Heisenberg; the clay in which the forces that shape all things leave their fingerprints most clearly. Dry your eyes... and let's go home."

It will take a few days to stop laughing from this. Earlier today I was searching using a certain unnamed search engine for a new utility sink for the laundry room. Then, shortly before dinner, I again used this certain search engine looking for a recipe for left-over couscous. Well -- this certain search engine sends its users targeted ads in an attempt to sell them things the certain search engine thinks they might be interested in.

A little ad popped up with this (screen shot):

Not that I'm about to spend almost $400 on a utility sink, I *had* to check out the website.

"The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence."Wallace Stevens

A random Keats-influenced sighting: Daniel Pinkwater writes wonderful kids' books. He's also a prtty good essayist. Several years ago, he did short pieces -- mostly his little essays -- on NPR. One was (obviously) one of my favorites. I kept looking for it on line, but was unsuccessful. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I bought the Kindle version of his book, "Fish Whistle." And, what do you know? There was the essay, "On First Looking into Kurtzman's Mad." (This essay dealt with having his eyes opened to the glories of satirical cartooning, etc., through the pages of Mad magazine. The book (paper and digital) is available through Amazon (and presumably brick & mortar bookstores, too.)

"The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence."Wallace Stevens